


under your skin, over the moon

by getmean



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, Healing, M/M, Post-Canon, atypical weddings, friendship reunions, literally just happiness pure and simple luv x, love!, old man sledgefus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25579915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getmean/pseuds/getmean
Summary: Merriell had been raised Catholic, and Eugene Baptist, but they’d decided to go for something more secular for this. It means their ‘priest’ is a fifty-something year old gay guy from Merriell’s hell-raising youth, their vows hand-written and stumbled through shyly with the eyes of their friends on them.
Relationships: Merriell "Snafu" Shelton/Eugene Sledge
Comments: 16
Kudos: 29
Collections: Sledgefu Week 2020





	under your skin, over the moon

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is for the dusk and dawn prompt, for sledgefu week! :~)

Merriell slides Eugene’s cufflinks into place, something serious on his face as he fiddles with the little circles of metal. Set with jet, to match Eugene’s father’s ring. His hair has been cut; close on the sides, the top left to curl. Eugene’s palms are clammy with nerves, his eyes fixed on Merriell for any micro-shift in his expression.

“Did you ever think this’d happen?” he asks, and surprises himself by how soft his voice comes out. They’re standing in their bedroom; the room small, and close with the door shut. One high set window, one floor length mirror reflecting Eugene’s pale, nervous face back at him. A double bed, a dresser strewn with his and Merriell’s things. Afternoon sunlight, and August heat.

Merriell, smoothing Eugene’s cuffs straight, huffs. “Not really.” His eyes flick up to meet Eugene’s; playful, and warm. He’s in a good mood, it’s clear in every line of his body. “Did you?”

Eugene hums, and then clears his throat, shifting a little so he can see himself fully in the mirror. “A little,” he admits, and adjusts his jacket, squaring his shoulders at his reflection. “Or maybe I just hoped it enough I thought it’d come true.”

“Well,” Merriell murmurs. “I guess it worked.” His hands smooth from Eugene’s shoulders to his elbows. Their hands link; Eugene squeezes, and smiles when Merriell squeezes back. 

They linger together, stood in the warm square of sunlight thrown by that little window. Outside they can hear the chatter of their friends, Bill’s loud voice rising above everyone else’s. Their words indistinct, muffled through the door. Eugene knows his palms are clammy in Merriell’s grip, and knows the other man can tell. There’s something dryly amused in the line of his mouth, his eyes downcast as he rubs a thumb across Eugene’s knuckles.

“Don’t be nervous,” he says. The strong sunlight shines in the grey hairs at his temples. “This ain’t much more than a formality by now.”

With numb lips, Eugene jokes, “How formal can an illegitimate marriage be?” They laugh, though it’s not very funny. It’s just the release of tension they need. Eugene knows that Merriell is just as nervous as him; he’s just much better at hiding his emotions. 

“With that lot out there?” Merriell jerks his thumb towards the door, to where their friends are waiting on them. “Not formal in the slightest.”

“What a relief,” Eugene deadpans, but lets Merriell urge him close for a kiss despite his nerves. He smells good, like the cologne he only wears on special occasions. It means that when Eugene smells it, he’s reminded of anniversaries, of birthdays, of Burgie’s wedding and going for drinks with friends. Musky, and rich, sandalwood and something peppery. Something about it manages to steel Eugene, manages to coax him from their room into the main area of the apartment, where their friends wait.

When Burgie had caught wind of Eugene’s intentions to make a (semi)-honest man of Merriell, he’d immediately flung himself into the planning of it with vigour. It mostly included rounding up their buddies from the war, though Eugene had been forced to gently threaten him over the phone a few times over the number of invitees. Eugene wanted something small, and Merriell wanted something even smaller than that. Both of them had worried at Burgie’s assurances that he was only writing to a select few, but the year had turned and the day had come, and as their guests began to trickle in Eugene had started feeling very stupid for not trusting Burgie as completely as he should’ve. 

Bill, Jay, and Burgie, plus their wives. Merriell had fake-grumbled that it was too many people, but Eugene had seen how pleased he was by the turn out, even if he wasn’t showing it. He’d pulled Bill into a long, tight hug, and then trapped Jay in one too. Over his shoulder, Bill had winked at Eugene, who’d just rolled his eyes. 

“See what I said ‘bout knowin’ you two?” Burgie had muttered, a little while later while Merriell and Bill were out emptying the liquor store ‘round the corner for the reception. Flo was ordering Jay around; Eugene and Burgie watching the scene from the doorway. 

“I shouldn’t’ve doubted you,” Eugene admits, as Jay pushes his and Merriell’s dining table back against the wall. He makes a low, impressed noise. “That Flo knows how to boss a man around.”

Beaming, Burgie nods. “That she does.”

And now, here they are. Stood awkwardly in front of the big windows at the front of the apartment, the sun in their eyes and an old friend of Merriell’s presiding over it. Merriell had been raised Catholic, and Eugene Baptist, but they’d decided to go for something more secular for this. It means their ‘priest’ is a fifty-something year old gay guy from Merriell’s hell-raising youth, their vows hand-written and stumbled through shyly with the eyes of their friends on them. 

“Don’t listen,” Merriell warns them, shuffling the paper he’d written his vows on nervously in his hands. “Close ya ears.” Everyone laughs, and Eugene does too but only because he’ll cry if he doesn’t. Then Merriell reads from the paper, and the tears spill over, and Merriell snorts at him and shakes his head, though Eugene can see his own eyes are wet too. 

“You make me sick!” Bill heckles, a huge grin slapped on his face when Eugene glances at him to glare. Their guests are perched on kitchen chairs, on the loveseat that Jay had shuffled around under Flo’s instruction. Ragtag and not very adult, nothing to take fancy photos of, but it fits. It suits them. Merriell’s always been the sort to fly by the seat of his pants through life, and Eugene has spent the last twenty years steadily relinquishing all the control that made him unhappy. It isn’t the wedding he’d thought he’d have, but that’s a blessing on its own. Burgie’s crying. Flo has passed him a handkerchief, which is balled in his fist and not going to much use at all. Later, Eugene will make fun of him for it, but in that moment he’s too busy being tearful too. 

A flash of an instant camera immortalises the scene; fixes Eugene’s tears and Merriell’s embarrassed smile onto paper forever. Eugene presses the back of his hand to his eyes, and then casts a glance out to the faces of their friends. Flo is shaking the Polaroid lazily, and grins when Eugene zeroes in on her.

“Don’t mind me,” she says, faux-saccharine. Nose crinkling with her smile. “Go ahead.”

Eugene snorts, and then sighs. Catches Merriell blinking hard when he turns back to him, lashes wet and black and clumped together. They share an eye-roll. Merriell’s never been one for public displays of anything, unless you count obnoxiousness. Eugene feels an urgent pulse of gratitude for him, in that moment. His wet eyes catching in the late-afternoon light, big hands nervous with the paper in them. It’s not his natural state. Eugene knows if it was up to Merriell they would’ve gone for a drink and exchanged rings through the cigarette smoke of their local bar. It means a lot that he’d entertain this, just for Eugene. 

When their makeshift priest produces the rings, Eugene squeezes at Merriell’s fingers as he slides it on. Locks eyes, and hopes to communicate everything he can’t say aloud. His love for Merriell. His appreciation, his affection, his loyalty. Judging by the way Merriell’s mouth quirks, eyes dropping to their hands, he hears Eugene loud and clear. It’s always been one of his greatest skills; he has reading Eugene down to a fine art, after all this time. 

Another flash of the camera. Distantly, Eugene is pleased for it. He knows already that he won’t remember this day well; only the emotions of it, and snapshots. The whirlwind of nerves and happiness and love in his chest. The smiling faces of his friends. The sweet black spikes that Merriell’s wet lashes make. Sometimes he thinks that he’s so full up with good memories these days that there can’t possibly be any room left for bad ones. Of course, it’s just a dream. But a nice one at that.

Flo makes them pose together for a picture in front of the window, afterwards. Merriell, who has been preemptively armed with a whiskey, doesn’t fight her, though he does grumble. 

“Closer together,” she prompts them, as Bill pours drinks behind her, and talks loudly to his girlfriend. She waves her hand, and in Eugene’s ear, Merriell huffs. “C’mon, Jesus —” she says.

The flash bulb blinds them. Merriell draws the line at pictures after the fifth group shot. 

“What d’you think I’ve got eyes for?” he cries, as Flo pretends to be annoyed with him. “Or a brain? I’ll remember it well enough, Flo.”

“You left your keys in the freezer a week ago,” Eugene reminds him, helpfully. It’s a testament to Merriell’s good mood that all he does in retaliation is kiss him. 

They cut the cake, they eat, they drink. The lot of them catching up after so many years apart. Burgie they kept in contact with; both of them visit him and Flo in Texas twice a year, but Eugene has only spoken to Jay and Bill through letters, bar a brief meet-up ten years ago at Jay’s own wedding. It means they have a lot to catch up on. Kids, vacations, breakups. Bill, divorced twice but cheerful about it. Jay, with a gaggle of kids after a surprise set of twins. Pictures are passed around, drinks are sloppily poured, and spilled, and forgotten about. 

Merriell, in his nice black slacks and his new shirt that Eugene had bullied him into buying, sticks to Eugene’s side all night. Cheeks flushed from the alcohol, a smile on his face that takes away from his grey hair, from the lines like rays around his eyes. Blame it on the booze, blame it on how nostalgic and happy Eugene’s feeling, but as the shadows begin to wrap around the room, Eugene thinks Merriell looks just like his young self. A little less sharp. A whole lot less hungry, and angry. Those big green eyes are softer these days. But still, there’s a shade of the boy there that Eugene had fallen for. It’s there when he teases Jay, makes him blush red as he makes some dirty joke about him producing twins. It’s there in the sharp smile he throws Eugene, in the way he presses his mouth to the shell of Eugene’s ear some indeterminate time later to whisper, “You just wait until we’re alone.”

Dusk falls cool and lilac beyond the windows, the room growing dim and then cosy as lamps are switched on, more alcohol is produced. Eugene feels silly with it, drunk on the good company that he’s missed so much, drunk on his own happiness. Drunk on the whiskey a little, too. 

“Thank you,” he tells Burgie, his arm around the man’s solid waist. “You always know what to do.”

Burgie’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, and curve into happy half moons when Eugene kisses him on both cheeks. “Cut it out,” he mutters, shoving Eugene away with a laugh. “Are we goin’ out, or what?” But he keeps hold of Eugene, arm around his shoulders as the girls rush around and retouch their makeup, cram into Merriell and Eugene’s tiny bathroom to fix their hair. 

“Hey,” Merriell says, sidling up to them both. His eyes slide from Eugene’s face to Burgie’s, a smile growing on his lips. “You alright?” 

“I’m happy for you,” Burgie tells him. Eugene snorts. He doesn’t have to look to know Burgie’s getting choked up again; his voice is thick with emotion. “Happy for both of you,” he adds, squeezing Eugene to his side. He smells like cologne and the cigarettes that Flo had frowned at him for smoking. Merriell is watching him, grinning, something fond in his expression.

“You’re a sap,” he announces, and claps Burgie on the shoulder. “Let my husband go, we’re goin’ to a bar.”

 _Husband_. Eugene feels silly and young by how much the word thrills him. He can see it thrills Merriell just the same, to say it. His eyes, playful and dark in the growing dusk. The way he pinches at Eugene’s waist when Burgie finally surrenders him.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Flo says, when she returns; hair fixed, lips red. Eyes bright with how tipsy she is, as she spots Burgie wiping his eyes. “What did you do to set him off again?”

They head out into the dusk in a gaggle, like the bunch of old half-drunk idiots that they are. Out into the streets of New Orleans, which is already gathering the evening around itself as if in preparation for their celebrations. Deep blue like an old cyanotype, the streetlights orange beacons through it. The women’s heels clatter over the cobbles. Bill’s holding his girl on his arm in a very gentlemanly manner, and teasing her for her shoes. 

“Hey,” Eugene murmurs, bumping his shoulder to Merriell’s as they make a beeline for the middle of the French Quarter. 

Merriell throws him a sidelong glance, cigarette wobbling in his mouth as he says, “Hey yourself.” His eyes are alight in his face. Cheeks hollowing around a drag on his smoke before he grins, and throws his arm around Eugene’s shoulders. “What?” he asks.

“Nothin’,” Eugene says, laughing as Merriell snorts, and squeezes him to his side. _Just wanted you to look at me_ , he thinks, lovesick and loving it. The ring on his finger feels a heavy, welcome weight. 

Bourbon Street is a wash of neon, of loud conflicting music pouring from the various bars that line the street. As one, they skirt it; the tourists, the young people, the people out to make mistakes. Jay behind them, made loud by the drink, saying, “You ever meet a guy who calls it ’boor-bun’? I always say, it’s ‘burr-ban’, B-O-U-R-B-”

“Jay,” Merriell throws over his shoulder, right in Eugene’s ear. “Lay off.”

They wind deeper into the quarter, to find dim bars and cheap drinks, little thrills. Cobbles underfoot, shifting as if set to trip them up. The clatter of the women’s heels, the sound of Bill and Merriell’s overlarge laughs bouncing off the houses around them. Warm night air, the taste of whiskey on Merriell’s lips, the way he smiles through a kiss, and cradles Eugene’s jaw as they cling together in a dark corner. The music so loud and the bar so full that nobody looks twice. Eugene doesn’t know how they don’t. He feels lit up from within, so in love it must be plain for anybody to see.

“Don’t it feel good, to feel good?” he asks, swaying into Merriell’s chest in the little corner they’ve stolen for themselves. Merriell, leaned back against the wall with his hands on Eugene’s waist, his eyes fond under his dark curls, snorts.

“Yeah,” he says, and his eyes are huge and warm and melting when he tosses his hair back. Reflecting all the tiny bright lights in the room back at Eugene. His hands squeeze at Eugene’s sides. “We shoulda done this years ago.”

Eugene laughs, and drops his gaze. Fiddles with a button on Merriell’s shirt, and then slips it from its hole. The dime he wears around his neck winks in the light, uncovered. “We weren’t ready years ago.” 

“I guess not.” Merriell’s head is ducked too, watching Eugene push another button loose. His chest jumps under Eugene’s fingers with his laughter. “What, you’re gonna strip me here?” 

“Nah,” Eugene breathes. He glances up, smiling, as Merriell pulls him into his chest by the arms around his waist. “You’d like that too much.”

“You know me,” Merriell murmurs, and kisses him. From behind them, Bill hoots, loud enough to carry over the music. 

“Get a room!”

“We’re tryin’!” Merriell retorts, as Eugene buries his face into his neck to laugh. 

They break it up, grab another drink, slide into the cluster of bodies swaying together on the dance floor. Eugene’s knuckles wet from the beer sloshing over his knuckles. Merriell’s hand on his waist, his hip, green eyes flashing in the low lights of the bar. _I’m married to him_ , Eugene wants to shout, for everyone in the room to hear. _To him!_ To him, to his dark hair and his big hands and his sweet mouth. To the small of his back, to the crook of his arm, to the hollow of his throat. To his happiness, to his sadness, to that part of him which makes him sulky and distant and to the part of him which makes him careless and quick to laugh. 

_I love you!_ Eugene mouths to Merriell, over the loud music. And Merriell grins, so big that it crinkles his eyes, and Eugene can see the same giddiness he feels reflected in Merriell. Some endless feedback loop of euphoria that shows no sign of dimming. It keeps hitting Eugene in waves. Every time he thinks he gets used to the concept that he and Merriell are married now, he gets flooded with happiness once again. He wonders when he’ll stop being bowled over by it, if ever. 

They hop bars for hours, winding through the streets of the Quarter getting drunker and drunker with each stop in their tour. Before long the blue evening has given over to true midnight, and Jay and his wife splinter off for their hotel, claiming over-drunkenness, and tiredness. Eugene hugs Jay tight before he goes, and to everyone’s vague surprise, so does Merriell. _Look_ , Eugene wants to say. _He’s changed for the better_. But he doesn’t want to draw attention to it. Instead, they make plans for the morning, and the night becomes a swirling kaleidoscope of lights and colour and sound. Of Burgie’s hand between Eugene’s shoulder blades, of Merriell’s nose at his temple. The flash of Flo’s blue dress as they dance together, the way the necklace around her throat winks and catches at the neon lights. Her small hand in his, her voice in Eugene’s ear as she leans in and says, “I can see he makes you happy.” 

Eugene just grins. He knew it was obvious. He’s so drunk that he can’t hold his tongue, and the words slip out as if oiled. “I think I make him happy too,” he says, and Flo’s hair smells lovely, like flowers. She smiles at him, and then Burgie steals her back and Merriell scoops Eugene into an embrace from behind, and Bill and his girl are in a corner together so Merriell yells, _hey, get a room!_ and the night devolves. 

The night doesn’t stay dark for long, when you’re hip-deep in summer as they are now. By the time their drunk bellies send them in search of something greasy, and hot, the sky is already beginning to lighten over their heads. Bill’s girl has her heels in her hand, stockinged feet getting dirty on the cobbles until Bill sacrifices his own shoes. Merriell rags on him for how well they fit her their whole walk through the quarter, his voice loud and drawling, smeared by the alcohol. 

“Lady-feet Leyden,” he announces, to general amusement. Bill hits him, and Merriell yelps in over-exaggerated pain.

“Boys,” Burgie says, that same tone he’d take with them during the war, if they were fooling around too much. It makes them laugh, makes Eugene nudge his shoulder to Burgie’s in affectionate familiarity. 

“You can take the man outta war, huh, Burg?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, arm slung around Flo’s shoulders and eyes crinkling warmly as he shakes his head, and smiles. “You’re all the same fools as you were back then.”

“I guess that’s nice,” Flo says. Ahead of them, Merriell and Bill are stumbling around, Bill’s head under Merriell’s armpit and his girl laughing behind her hand at the scene. Distracted by them, Eugene hums, questioningly, and catches Flo’s eye. She shrugs. “Y’know. Right down deep y’all knew each other then, and you know each other now.”

Burgie beams at her, and then directs the full wattage of it onto Eugene in turn. “See?” he says, proudly. “She ain’t just a pretty face.”

Up ahead, Merriell curses, he and Bill openly wrestling now. The scuff of their shoes on the cobbles. Merriell’s poor dress shirt. Eugene spots them, and snorts. “Wish I could say the same for Merriell,” he says, lightly, and laughs right along with Flo and Burgie even as his mind sticks to Flo’s words. He’s just drunk enough that navel-gazing comes as easy as breathing. That sleepy, reflective mood he’s so prone to. It’s nice to think that the lot of them never stopped knowing each other. Nice to think that somewhere deep down in both him and Merriell, there’s still such a significant spark of themselves from that time that even Flo can see it; stranger to their younger selves that she is. 

Tonight feels like the melding of past and present, the opening up of a future that Eugene had always suspected he was on track for, but is happy to be able to know for sure now. It feels right that he and Merriell would share it with this particular set of people. The ones who’d been there that first day when Merriell had chased Eugene off. Had been there to see them fight, and cry, and make up. It’s almost enough to make Eugene laugh. They thought they were so smart; so secretive. 

They eat in some neon-lit hole in the wall, white-washed walls stained with cigarette smoke, a greasy, steamy kitchen pumping out the smell of food directly into their clothes, their hair. Merriell, lord of it all, handsome in a kind of louche, dishevelled way from his scrap with Bill in the street. Lounging in one of the little plastic chairs that cluster the greasy tables, talking in rapid-fire, melodic creole French to the cook behind the counter. He’s drunk; it’s easy to see. The heaviness of his eyelids, the curl of his mouth. Eugene is tucked away under Merriell’s arm, his voice loud in his ear and his body radiating warmth through his thin shirt. Flash of his wedding ring in the yellow lights. Eugene finds himself watching it like a fish watches a lure.

“If only Jay was here to translate,” Burgie says, gesturing with the fry in his hand towards the back of Merriell’s head. He and the cook are laughing now. Eugene snorts, and ducks his head as Merriell’s hand slides absently over the nape of his neck.

“Jay hates when Merriell tries to speak French to him,” he murmurs. “Besides, he’s just braggin’.”

They eat, soaking up all the alcohol as they talk, and laugh, and reminisce. Exchanging stories with the girls about the war, trading family anecdotes and filling in the gaps of their lives between the war and now, bar the sporadic times they’ve all managed to meet up. Knees bumping under the table. Cigarettes turning the air smoky above their heads until it becomes clear they’re overstaying their welcome in the tiny little eatery, and flow back out into the street to meet the dawn, and part ways. Hugs, slaps on the back, promises of as much breakfast as they can eat tomorrow, as long as they can find the apartment alright. Flo’s flowery perfume in Eugene’s nose, a ball of pure warmth jammed up behind his breastbone as he and Merriell linger, and watch their friends go until they can’t see them any longer. 

“Just us,” Eugene says, into the sudden quiet. Merriell’s arm is around his waist, his collar smelling like smoke and food and just a trace of that cologne he brings out for special occasions, when he pulls Eugene to his chest. 

“You ready to go home?” he asks, the watery light of dawn shining in the silvery hair at his temples, in his pale eyes as they flit warmly over Eugene’s face. 

They hold hands as they wander back to their apartment, clung close together in the quiet, dawn-lit streets. Talking softly, and quietly, drunkenness making their words loose and nonsensical, sending them into fits of laughter that echo off the faces of the buildings they pass. 

“Does it feel different?” Merriell asks him, as Eugene searches slowly through his pockets for the front door key. The two of them crammed together in the narrow hallway outside their apartment, Merriell slumped against the wall with his eyes hazy and dark and unerring on Eugene’s face. Overwhelmingly so. It’s funny how even after all these years, Merriell has the uncanny ability to make Eugene blush. 

“Yes,” Eugene says, with no hesitation. The key turns in the lock, and they fall inside, Merriell barely kicking the door shut before his mouth is on Eugene, his hands, his teeth. 

“Tell me,” he murmurs, heatedly, stripping Eugene’s jacket from his shoulders, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Eugene’s already working at his own belt, at his fly, the two of them shedding clothes in a half-drunk whirlwind as they move from door to bed. 

“Everythin’ feels different,” Eugene breathes, as Merriell presses him back into the mattress. They kiss, a wet slide of teeth and lips and tongues, Eugene’s fingers buried in Merriell’s curls as he throws his head back to gasp, “Everythin’. The way you touch me, the way you look at me —” He can’t say the things he really wants to. How even the light looks different, as it spills in through the wide windows they had exchanged vows and rings in front of only a handful of hours before. Watery, grey dawn light in Merriell’s hair, his teeth, his eyes. Everything feels softer, warmer, brighter. It’s happiness, Eugene supposes, heart thudding huge behind his ribs as he and Merriell twist together into the sheets, and sink down into each other. Sweat springing up on his brow, the touch of Merriell’s hands to his skin burning like gentle brands. 

“I didn’t think it was possible —” Merriell begins, and cuts himself off to moan as Eugene pulls him in closer. He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. _To feel this good, to love you more, to be this happy_. Speech becomes useless at a certain point. Eugene can feel Merriell’s wedding band pressing at the skin of his neck; skin-warmed, precious. It makes him want to bite down on something, makes him want Merriell to sink into him until there’s no Eugene and no Merriell — just them, just one person. He’s wanted Merriell like this since he glanced up and saw the man’s eyes wet with tears. Wanted to be covered by him, wanted to be claimed by him in the last way left to them. 

“I love you,” he murmurs, into the silence that follows. Merriell is a heavy, warm weight on Eugene’s chest, slumped there still inside Eugene, like he can’t bear to pull out and break their connection. Eugene can’t bear it either. Strangely, he feels like crying. All the emotions of the day has left him feeling exhausted. 

Merriell seems to sense it. His hand curves gently at Eugene’s jaw, his eyes huge and searching, so soft they’re melting. That grey dawn light washes everything out to an indiscernible fuzz. Or maybe that’s just Eugene’s tiredness. He feels so full up with feeling that he can’t do anything but let a few tears spill over. 

“Oh,” Merriell murmurs, when he sees them. His thumb sweeping at the wet on Eugene’s cheeks. “Genie.”

“I’m just happy,” Eugene breathes, and blinks his eyes open to stare up at the ceiling. Merriell shifts inside of him, as if making moves to pull out, and Eugene clutches at him. He stills. “Let’s stay like this,” he murmurs, and pats Merriell’s side. “Just stay, for a while.”

So they stay, and doze. The room lightening and the light warming as the clock ticks away on the bedside table. At some point, they wake, and go again; Merriell’s warm breath on the shell of Eugene’s ear as they rock against each other, his hand clutched in Eugene’s hair, holding him and looking at him like he’s the most special thing in the world. It’s enough to make tears prick Eugene’s eyes again, and Merriell laughs this time, handsome and tired in the early morning light. Kissing at Eugene’s eyelids. Salt on his mouth. Tears, sweat. Eugene’s thighs are wet when Merriell pulls out of him, and they fall asleep just like that. Tangled up nude in the sheets, Merriell fitted neatly up behind Eugene, his forehead to the nape of his neck and their hands tangled together over Eugene’s belly. Washed over pale in the morning light, the first day of their life as each other’s.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading!


End file.
